


Ink and Incense

by TriscuitsandSoup



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop & Tattoo Parlor, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, Baker Stiles Stilinski, Biting, Bruises, Canon-Typical Violence, Clubbing, Descriptions of Pain, Drinking, Drug Use, Druid Stiles Stilinski, Drunk Sex, Drunk Stiles, Emissary in Training Stiles Stilinski, Fainting, Florist Stiles, Florist Stiles Stilinski, Full Shift Werewolves, Good Peter, Implied Sexual Content, Innocent Stiles Stilinski, It sounds darker than it is, Light Sadism, M/M, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Marking, Marks, Matchmaker Erica, Mentions of Blood, Mentions of rough sex, Minor Derek Hale/Isaac Lahey, Minor Vernon Boyd/Erica Reyes, No Underage Sex, Pain, Recreational Drug Use, Sadism, Sadistic Peter, Sadistic Peter Hale, Scent Marking, Stiles faints, Tattoo Artist Peter, Tattoo Artist Peter Hale, Tattoos, clubs, fainter stiles, sadist Peter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-16
Updated: 2016-06-29
Packaged: 2018-06-08 21:04:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6873187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TriscuitsandSoup/pseuds/TriscuitsandSoup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peters neighbor is afraid of needles, and Peter thinks he's just cute enough to terrorize. It sounds darker than it is. </p><p>  <i>“What is that boy <i>doing</i>?” Peter looked up from his art and glanced at the window. His pretty, pale, neighbor was attempting to cross the street. He wasn't having much luck with his hands covering his eyes. He'd gotten himself stuck in the middle of the road, with cars passing by on either side. Still, he refused to drop his hands. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The scent of ink, the heat of skin, splashes of color, the permanence of his canvas – there wasn't a single thing that Peter didn't love about being a tattoo artist. He even loved the fleeting looks of bright, vibrant pain that crossed his clients faces as he took a blowtorch to their skin. It wasn't the sadism, it was the intimate act of permanently marking someone forever, someone who was so committed to an idea or an image that they would endure over an hour of pain just to have it displayed on their body. That kind of intimacy could only be enjoyed when vigorous consent was given. He wouldn't even offer to tattoo someone who wasn't perfectly willing to endure the process to achieve it.

He carefully wiped the antiseptic solution over his clients back above the shoulder blade. His clients fingers dug into the chair. He sat facing the door, with his eyes firmly on the window. It was a little silly, to find a werewolf afraid of being in pain, but it wasn't the first time he'd had to deal with that little dilemma. 

Peter setup his machine and turned his eyes back to the task at hand. The man had chosen his packs mark for the design of his tattoo. It wasn't a particularly impressive or creative design, but there was a sentimentality there that could be appreciated, admired even. They would have to wait until after the shop closed for the night to burn the skin away and prevent it from healing itself, but for now he could at least get the necessary line work out of the way. His client stiffened underneath him. 

“What is that boy _doing_?” Peter looked up from his art and glanced at the window. His pretty, pale, neighbor was attempting to cross the street. He wasn't having much luck with his hands covering his eyes. He'd gotten himself stuck in the middle of the road, with cars passing by on either side. Still, he refused to drop his hands. 

“I haven't the slightest idea,” Peter said with an amused smile. They had never met, and yet he harbored a deep desire to see the brunette squirm. He wasn't normally so hostile with the neighbors, unless – like this one had – they kept him up all hours of the night doing _construction_.

The noise had been an issue since day one. Ever since the 'for sale' sign disappeared the hours between noon and midnight had become so full of cacophonous noise he needed to retreat to his sound proof basement just to escape it. 

He watched as men in dark clothes dragged armfuls of lumbar, granite, and other assorted materials inside the building. He didn't know exactly what they were doing inside the building, but it sounded like they were testing it's resistance to explosives. Even so, that wasn't enough to push him over the edge. He had a flawless ability to concentrate, a little banging here and there wouldn't stop him from doing his work to the highest standard. 

What was enough to change him from 'annoyed' to 'vengeful' was that most of the workers parked their cars in front of his parlor and left the lights running. Those lights beamed directly into Peters bedroom above the shop. He worked from two p.m. until two a.m., so those few precious hours of darkness were terribly important to him. Important enough, that when he heard the boy offhandedly mention his fear of needles to one of the workers he set about ordering very large scale prints of the tattoo process _in depth_. He hung them prominently in the windows of his parlor. 

The young florist evidently hadn't liked the prints, as he started working with his back to the window. Peter smiled his evil smile as he admired his neighbors ass from across the street. At least he'd gotten a nice view out of the situation. Seeing him struggle to cross the street only widened that smile. He would have watched him struggle, but he had art to create and impeccable work ethic. 

He started the tattoo, tracing over the werewolves skin with a firm, precise hand. His wrist curved in even, steady lines around where the tattoo would eventually be filled. He drew three small circles, surrounded by a larger one. 

He was interrupted halfway through the second by a loud 'bang' from outside. His client barked a laugh. Peter looked up to see the human boy had managed to cross the street and crash into a bike rack – all while keeping his eyes covered. Stiles righted his gangly mess of limbs and shook his head, muttering an inaudible apology to the bikes he knocked over. He gave up on walking altogether as he began to literally _crawl_ on his belly towards the door. 

“Well now I just feel bad for him,” the wolf in the chair said. 

“Don't,” Peter said, dryly. “He won't stay down for long.” 

When at last he managed to stumble inside Peter felt like applauding. The boys hands quickly pressed tightly to his eyelids as he spotted the man in the chair. 

“Hello,” Peter purred. “You must be my lovely neighbor.” The boy might have been glaring, but it was impossible to tell. 

“Look, okay, this has gone on long enough and – ow!” he yelped as he banged his knee into the counter. Peter covered his mouth with his fist to stifle his amusement behind a cough. “I'm asking you nicely to stop.” The human spread his fingers and looked between them with large, apprehensive doe eyes. 

Peter let out a regretful sigh. “I can't stop. I'm right in the middle.” 

“No, not _that_! Stop putting up pictures and shit! Bring the old posters back, or get some curtains or something. Is it even legal to do tattoos in a window? I don't think so.” He tapped his foot impatiently. 

“I'm not sure I understand what you mean, Mr. . . ?”

“Stiles, you can call me Stiles – and you know exactly what I mean. You've been sadistically targeting my phobia of needles with your . . .“ he struggled for a word, “displays. It's evil and sadistic. I know, I have a very discerning eye for evil and sadism.” He lowered his hands a little bit more. The posturing he was doing was nullified by the way he stood in the corner, like a cowering dog with his tail between his legs. 

“Well, this is a tattoo shop, Stiles.” Peter said. He heard his client clip out a short laugh. 

“Yeah all the needles, and ink, and neon stuff pretty much cemented that fact in, thanks. Look, just move the chair away from the window, and take down the needle posters, okay? Then we won't have a problem.” His hands finally fell away from his face completely. He had a rather pretty face, one Peter hadn't gotten to admire while the boy worked so hard to keep his eyes turned away from the place. His mole speckled skin would have made a pretty canvas, Peter decided, if only the brain attached to it weren't so obnoxious and loud. 

“Hmm,” Peter considered, intentionally turning the machine back on. He still wasn't quite sure this 'Stiles' had learned his lesson. “They are rather crucial to running my business.” 

Stiles stiffened. “Oh c'mon! How are posters necessary? The big fucking sign pretty much let's everyone know what goes on here.” He pressed himself impossibly closer to the brick wall and waved at the graphic designs framed and hanging around the shop. 

Peter raised an accusing brow. “Oh? Tell me, Stiles, what’s so necessary about _days_ of construction on a flower shop?” Stiles seemed caught off guard by the question. 

“Uhm . . . you know, lights and stuff?” His shoulders bristled defensively. 

“‘lights and stuff’ don’t take a week to complete, and most construction companies don’t do their work at _two in the morning_.” Peter narrowed his eyes and pressed down on the foot pedal again. His machine whirred. Stiles already pale skin blanched. 

“Okay, okay!” Stiles said queasily, he held his hands up. “I’m _sorry_ if I kept you awake. Can you forgive me enough to take down the posters? Pretty please?” 

“I will _consider_ it. Now if you'll excuse me-?” He lowered his machine back to his clients skin. 

Stiles went rigid and jerked his head away from the machine. He moved his hands up to cover his eyes but before he could he spotted something shiny and metal on the counter. “Jesus Christ is that a blowtorch?” he yelled out, motioning towards the metal object. “What kind of tattoo artist uses a _blowtorch_? That cannot be leg-eeeeh!” Peter opened his mouth to speak, but before he could defend himself the boy swayed and hit the ground. Both he and his client winced. 

“Maybe you went a little too far?” the wolf suggested. 

Peter only shrugged. “He looks like he's still breathing.” Inwardly he felt a small pang of concern. His intention really hadn't been to cause the boy physical harm, just to unnerve him. It would ruin his fun if Stiles were actually injured. 

“Shouldn't you move him?”

“I suppose,” Peter sighed. “He's a bit of a fire hazard, lying there in the middle of the room, isn't he?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles wakes up and Peter finds out more about his new neighbor.

After finishing with his client Peter dragged Stiles to his small apartment just above the parlor. He laid the boy down on his sofa, resting his head carefully on its side against the armrest. Stiles groaned a little but didn't move. 

Peter took his chin delicately between his finger and his thumb and lifted it up. His skin was soft and warm underneath. He felt along the back of his head underneath his hair until he found a small bump. It was less than an inch, nothing to be concerned about. There was no bleeding, his pulse was steady if a little weak, and every now and then he'd show signs of life in the form of soft groaning.

Well, there was that. 

His intention hadn't been to make Stiles faint, but perhaps he should have known better. Either way, the boy would make a full recovery. He kept his hand on the boys chin, keeping his face turned towards him. Before he'd only caught passing, distant glimpses of him from across the way or passing by his parlor with his head turned and bowed. He took the opportunity to sit back and admire he's neighbors appearance up close. 

He brushed a few short, caramel-colored hairs from his forehead. He had to be at least eighteen, more likely nineteen or twenty, but his face retained it's youthful features. He was very attractive, in a way that just begged to be teased- but maybe not to the point of fainting next time. 

Stiles let out another soft groan, parting his lips. He turned his head out of Peters grasp and furrowed his dark brows. A second later and his eyes opened again, they were the same color as his hair. He blinked a little in confusion. 

“Welcome back,” Peter said, dropping his hand from where it lingered when Stiles pulled away. 

“Whaaaa-?” Stiles blinked and pushed himself up onto his elbows. 

“How are you feeling?” he asked in a slow, firm voice. Stiles clenched his eyes shut and felt up the back of his head with his fingertips. He winced when he found tender skin. 

“. . . Like someone hit me with a baseball bat. Several times.” He pulled his hand away from his head and examined it, just as Peter himself had. There was still no trace of blood. 

“I see.” He hummed. Stiles cast his confused, unfocused eyes around the room. He settled them on the unfamiliar furniture, then the door they'd come through, and finally his gaze drifted upwards towards the werewolf watching him. 

“What do you remember?” Peter asked him cautiously. If there was a chance he could convince the boy he hadn't been involved in any way with his injuries he'd take it. Stiles was disoriented now, but he was quickly coming too. 

Stiles pushed himself up into a sitting position, letting his back slump against the armrest. He vainly attempted to refocus his eyes. A fleeting look of worry crossed his face. “Why'd ya have a blowtorch?” The question was near slurred. 

“For inspirational purposes,” Peter reassured. “Tell me, how many fingers am I holding up?” He decided a little test was in order to determine whether or not he could scoot Stiles back outside the building and leave him once more to his own, fumbling devices. 

Stiles squinted at them. His brow furrowed in concentration. “Threeee?” he drawled in a questioning tone. “I see three. One of them keeps disappearing.” 

Peter tensed. Subtly he raised up a third finger. “Good job, that's correct,” he praised. “Now let's get you home before you remember the term 'liability lawsuit.'” He stood and grabbed Stiles arms. He yanked them up, but Stiles refused to budge. Like a puppet his arms hung limp in Peters hold. 

“Stiles, I'm taking you home now. Get up.” He tugged him again. With a little less resistance Stiles allowed himself to be pulled back up onto his stumbling feet. He swayed a little and leaned against Peter for support. Peter hooked an arm around his waist to steady him. 

“Where're we going?” Stiles asked.

“We're going to walk you back to your apartment, and settle you into your comfy bed. When we get there you are going to do your absolute very best not to fall into a coma.” Stiles sounded something that sounded like a protest. Peter ignored it and began guiding him towards the stairway. “I'll even check up on you in few hours to make sure you haven't died, alright?” 

“I can get there on my own,” Stiles argued, with surprising articulation. He tried to stand on his own but the shaking of his knees betrayed him, he wobbled and collapsed back in the werewolves arms. He banged his knee against the coffee table in the process. He hissed in pain, but at least it sobered him up a little more. He hoped on one foot, sticking his arm around Peters shoulders to prevent himself from becoming reacquainted with the floor. 

“If you're feeling confident . . . ” with a smirk he started to step back. Stiles clung to him like a frightened child.

“No, no, no,” he shook his head and winced. “Point taken. You may walk me home.” 

“Excellent,” Peter said, placing his hand back on the florists hip. “I think you'll find crossing the street is much easier the way I do it. The trick is to look for the cars before stepping out into oncoming traffic. They're teaching it to children now, I hear.” 

Stiles scowled. “Shut. Up.” 

He took Stiles by the elbow and walked him towards the staircase. He steadied him easily, using the hand on his hip to keep him from toppling as he gently pushed him into taking the first step. Stiles own hands stayed stuck in his shirt, nails digging in just ever-so-slightly to his skin. His eyes were downcast on the stairs, watching his foot meet the first step cautiously, as though it might give way beneath him. 

“Good,” Peter praised when he at last made contact and had both feet planted firmly on the step. “Just seventeen more to go. Not so hard, is it?” 

Stiles groaned. They made it down the rest of the steps slowly but surely. As soon as the humans feet touched the sales floor of the tattoo parlor he released Peters shirt from his death grip and clenched his eyes shut. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Peter asked, looking down at him. 

“I'm not looking.” He crossed his arms and jutted out his chin in stubborn determination. 

Peter rolled his eyes. It was a shame Stiles couldn't see it, it was one of his best eye-rolls. “Oh, for christs sake. All the evil, dangerous, needles have been put away. You may open your eyes now.” 

“No.”

“Stiles.” 

“No. I don't trust you.” He kept his eyes firmly tightened. 

“. . . . Smart choice,” Peter said. He moved his hand from the boys waist up to his elbow and lightly guided him towards the door. Stiles movements were still jerky and uncoordinated, but at least now they were the result of his own sightless navigation, and not a concussion. As soon as he felt the hot, Californian air on his face he reopened his eyes. 

Getting him across the street proved no less challenging, and was much less fun than watching him cross it on his own had been. Stiles stumbled repeatedly over the broken cement blocks the city labeled 'sidewalks' and nearly face planted four times before they even made it to the door. Halfway across the road Peter considered pushing him away and leaving him there, as they were no longer technically on his property, he was not liable for anything that happened to him. Then decided better of it, having someone run over outside his shop would put a damper on business. Plus, it would be a shame to let such a pretty face become a splatter on the roadway. 

“You can just open it,” Stiles said, once they'd finally arrived at the other end of the road. “It should be unlocked. 

“Unlocked?” Peter raised a brow. 

Stiles sheepishly shrugged. He didn't miss the light pinkening of his ears. “I'm forgetful, sometimes I forget to lock it.”

“How are you still even alive?” Peter sighed, letting go of him momentarily to rub his temple. 

“It's a mystery.” He gave a small smile. 

The door gave a tell-tale 'ding ding' of a small bell as it swung open. It grated on his ears, like a low-pitched dog whistle. He'd never heard it before, but then, he'd never actually walked into the building before. There was never a reason to before now; he wasn’t much a fan for daisies and sunflowers. Roses he had a certain attachment too, but only for symbolic purposes. The buildings layout was exactly the same as his own, with a large sales floor and a staircase leading to the apartment above, and the basement below. Unlike his own, the stairs and the register were closed off behind a small gate.

The fragrant scent of recent blooms rushed into his over sensitive nose. He sneezed and felt an uncomfortable sensation of something crawling down his throat. It wasn't painful, just unpleasant. He looked around for the source of his discomfort. 

Behind the sales register sat a small, purple flower in a little pot. It had a few small, yellow, bulbs sprouting from between it's petals. _Nightshade,_ his mind supplied. Peter furrowed his brow. That wasn't a normal houseplant you'd buy while shopping for a gift. Directly adjacent to the poisonous blooms was a small vase, containing several cuttings of a white, long-stemmed plant. Both plants had a small card reading 'reserved' placed at their base. _Hemlock,_ Peter thought the plants name again. _Next to that is mistletoe, and next to _that_ . . ._ His chest rumbled with a growl too low for Stiles to hear. Stiles stepped away from him just in time to miss the reverberation of his chest with his snarl.

“Thanks,” Stiles said, taking a few small steps. “I think I got it from here. I can make it the rest of the way by myself.” Peter grasped his shoulder in a tight, unbruising, but tight.

“Oh, I'm not so sure you should. You might have a concussion, remember?” Peter moved towards the sales register, pulling Stiles with him. “It'd be a shame if something happened to you, wouldn't it?” With every step that brought him closer to the stairway he could smell more and more exotic plants, many of them not pleasant in the slightest. 

“No, thank you though. I'll be fine,” Stiles laughed nervously. “What's a little coma among friends?” 

Peter didn't respond. He watched Stiles fumble with the gate lock like a hawk about to swoop on its prey. Stiles unhooked the latch and pushed the gate open. 

“Oh, and Stiles?” 

“Yeah?” Stiles turned back to him. 

Peter grasped his shoulder and shoved him behind the counter. He let his eyes flash yellow and grinned wide, showing his canines. Stiles heart stuttered as he caught sight of the emerging fangs and glistening claws. He tried scrambling back but Peter was far too quick for him. He grabbed him by the throat and pressed him firmly up against the wall. He let the points of his claws dig into the humans flesh a little, not enough to hurt but to make his point known. He could hear his heartbeat nearly jump out of his chest. 

His voice was low and husky as he whispered in his ear. “Do you want to explain why you have enough wolfs bane to outfit a small army? Or do I have to persuade you?” He tilted his head to one side, letting his fangs show through his smirk. “I'm very good at persuading people.” 

Stiles gulped. 

\- - - - - - – - - - - - - - - - - - - – 

The basement smelled like cleaning products, dirt, and pollen. The room was sectioned off into two areas by a thin curtain running between them. 

The first was immaculate, sterile, and white. The walls and floors still shone brightly with whatever had been used to polish them. A faint trail of lemon-scented cleaner hung in the air. A singular table was pushed to the middle of the room, surrounded by spot lights. A large, industrial-sized drain was underneath it. He could see what all the construction was for. 

The second was just the opposite. A motley of brightly colored plants lined one wall, carefully cultivated underneath grow lights that turned the deep green leaves a brilliant scarlet. Several of the most serious looking varieties were encased in a glass box, locked and surrounded by a layer of mountain ash.

“Well isn't this interesting,” said Peter descending the stairs. The boy trailed behind him, rubbing his throat. 

“Be careful,” he warned. “Not all of those plants are for healing.” 

“Oooh, I know that.” Peter said, walking to the glass box. He pushed his fingers towards the box until he felt the mountain ash barrier push back. “I know what the purpose of all of these plants are.” The variety of wolfs bane inside was lethal enough to kill a grown wolf on the full moon in less then thirty seconds. For now they were harmless sprouts, but they wouldn't be forever. 

“So you're a werewolf working as a tattoo artist. I suppose that explains all the late night howling I hear. For a while there I thought you were just into kinking sex.” The boy teased, walking up behind him. 

“Oh, I am,” he teased back, leaving the glass box of plants in favor for a slightly less lethal grouping. Some small, potted pink flowers lay beside it. He held one up. “That would explain the howling _after_ business hours,” he winked. Stiles heart rate accelerated. His pretty brown eyes dilated. 

“wha-?” 

“So tell me, how does a druid wind up selling gardening supplies to middle-aged women?” He ran his finger over the velvety petal of the pink plant. It smelled soft and subtle, like lavender almost. 

“It wasn't my first choice,” the boy admitted, recovering easily. “I wanted to go to med school; I've got the grades but not the funds. So, florist is my only option until something else comes up, or I've got the money to go.” He shrugged. “Then I'll graduate, open a small practice, and have access to much better supplies. Until then, I'll make due with gardening sheers and supermarket gauze.” He shifted nervously on his feet as Peter set the first plant down and picked up a second one. 

“I can't imagine being a florist is all that lucrative,” Peter commented. “Not until prom season, at least.” 

Stiles grinned. “It is when you're selling more than just carnations. A lot of these plants can be pretty hard to come by. I have more in the garden out back, and some upstairs, too.” He held his chin up a little higher with barely contained pride. 

Peter chuckled. “So, how's my favorite little fainter going to handle surgery?” Peter asked, abandoning the plants altogether. He walked towards the medical table and picked up one of the scalpels, still carefully wrapped in plastic. He tilted it to one side to admire his reflection in the blade. Behind him he could see Stiles face contorting into that of a grimace. “What happens when some poor wolf comes stumbling in through your door, broken and bleeding, and in need of help? How will you cure him when you can't stand to look at him? Unless you plan on perfecting the art of blind operations?” 

“ _Quickly_ ,” was Stiles answer with a grimace. “I will do it quickly. Although,” after a second of hesitation he said, “maybe that's something you could help me with?” They made eye contact.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter helps Stiles get used to needles.

“Oh god, I can already feel it.” Peter rolled his eyes. 

“It isn't even on yet, Stiles,” he said as he rubbed the disinfectant in a light circle around the skin he planned to mark. He could feel the humans muscles already tensing underneath him. He usually didn't perform tattoos while straddling his customers, but Stiles required some more aggressive handling techniques. Once that was finished he grasped Stiles shoulder tight and pinned him to the chair. The boy whined and turned his head to one side.

He picked up the machine and pressed it to Stiles skin. 

“Ow!” The boy winced and tried to pull away. 

Peter sighed. “We haven't even started yet. Settle down.” 

Stiles took a deep breath. “Okay, okay, I'm calm. So calm. The calmest.”

“Glad to hear it.” Peter smirked as he pressed the machine to Stiles skin. Stiles fingers dug into the chair, his blunt nails disappearing into the cloth. 

“It's alright, just relax,” he soothed, tightening his grip on Stiles shoulder. Stiles kept his eyes firmly fixed in the opposite direction. He whimpered pathetically each time Peter moved the needle. “There's nothing to be nervous about.” 

“Other than having my skin stabbed like nine hundred times, repeatedly, with a needle.” He brushed the machine up and down the small patch of skin, gripping the boy tighter to keep him still. Stiles squinted his eyes open slightly and looked over. 

“That's not the machine you used last time,” he pointed out. 

“No, the other one has a foot pedal. I can't hold you down and press that one at the same time, so I'm using a modified machine. Now be still.” The answer satisfied Stiles just enough into keeping one eye squinted down at his arm. 

Peter felt almost sorrowful to be marking such a perfect canvas. Stiles white skin was smooth and soft. Instead of being a detriment the moles that dotted his body gave a nice contrast and served to exemplify just how pure the rest of his skin actually was. He'd like to be marking the skin for real, to paint a picture of black and white along his arm or his back. He tightened his grip on Stiles shoulder to drain the mild pain from his body. It came up in the form of a light black trickle that barely felt like a scratch. 

Stiles took a shuddering breath. “It's okay; you don't have to do that. It's not the pain I'm afraid of.” 

“So what is it then? Just the needles?” Stiles jolted a little when he moved the machine a little to the left. He didn't stop draining the boys pain. It wasn't a lot, little more than a scratch, and if it kept the human from screeching in his ears he was more than willing to accommodate. 

“Just the needles,” Stiles breathed. “I just don't like needles.” He leaned his head against the chair and uncurled his fingers. It was a good sign he was starting to relax. “Or blood, really.” 

“Hm,” Peter nodded and continued his work until he'd left a sizable patch of skin covered in pin pricks. Stiles didn't seem to notice when he pulled the machine away. “Your prospects of being a doctor aren't looking good, my young druid.” 

“Ugh, please don't remind me.” Stiles kneaded the armrest anxiously. 

“Alright, we're done now,” he said. 

The human blinked and turned his head. “Already? Can I look?” 

“Of course you can.” Peter scoffed, pushing himself off the squirming boy. Stiles chanced a squinting glance over at his arm. 

“Oh,” he said, taking in the sight of his reddened skin. His eyes widened. “There's a squiggle,” he pointed out, poking lightly at his bruised skin. The machine had left behind a thick, plum line of a bruise where he traced. 

“Not so scary, was it?” Peter ruffled the boys hair, earning himself a nasty look. He smirked. “Nothing to be afraid of.” 

“What are you afraid of, Peter?” Stiles asked, looking up at the werewolf. He pursed his lips. 

“I'll tell you someday,” he promised. “For now, I need to clean your arm.” He pulled out a package of gauze, a kind that was much more sterile than the 'supermarket' brand Stiles had in his basement. “Because as you said, you _were_ just stabbed six hundred times in the arm. With a needle.” 

Peter carefully applied another layer of disinfectant to Stiles pricked skin and delicately wrapped the cloth around his arm. It was a little unnecessary, but he didn't know what kind of things Stiles liked to muck around with when no one was watching, “There, you're all good.” He patted the humans shoulder and stood, pulling off his gloves. “The scar will be gone in about ten to twenty days. Then you'll be good as new.” 

“Well, thanks,” Stiles said, pushing down his sleeve and standing. “For everything.” 

“Oh, don't thank me yet,” Peter said with a smirk. “I know exactly how you're going to repay me.” 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - – - - - – - - - – - – - – - – - - - - - - – 

Stiles crushed the pink flower into a fine dust, scrapping it carefully off the table and into his hand. “You know, normally I _charge_ people for these kinds of things.” He'd been a little reluctant to part with one of his plants without being paid, but when Peter asked about his collection of wolfsbane he'd been quick to forget any reservations. 

Peter took the fine dust from his hand and sniffed it slightly. It was a sweet, refreshing scent. Faintly fruity, like a wild strawberry. He remembered his mother having some in her garden when he'd been a child. He also remembered all of its various uses. 

“Yes, and normally I charge people to let me dig into their skin with a machine. We've both done something unusual tonight, and we're going to do something unusual again.” Peter smirked, heading towards his cabinet. 

“You want to do drugs with me?” Stiles raised his brow. He leaned back against the counter.

“No, I want to get _drunk_ with you.” Peter easily found what he was looking for and pulled a bottle of brown liquor from the cabinet. He emptied the handful of powder into the drink, mixing it in with a light shake. 

Stiles watched him curiously, a hint of suspicion in his doe brown eyes. “What's that going to do?” 

“To you? Nothing. For me, it's going to lower my healing ability just enough that I can actually respond to alcohol. Get some shot glasses out of the cabinet,” he commanded, pulling a stool up to his counter top. “Honesly, shouldn't you have already known that? Are you as bad a druid as you are a doctor?”

Stiles scoffed, but stood and obeyed his command. “That plant has like ninety different uses. Most of which are psychedelic. Traditionally, certain pagan cultures snorted it and ran around the woods naked, chasing light fairies. Light fairies don't exist, by the way. They were just a result of hallucinogens.” He pulled the glasses from the cabinet and set them down, sitting across from Peter. 

Peter poured a generous amount of whiskey into both glasses. “I can assure you I have no interest in dancing through the woods, but if you'd like to take your clothes off I won't stop you.” He winked, and it brought a vibrant grin to Stiles face. 

“You're supposed to wait until after I've finished my drink before trying to get me out of my clothes,” he said, wagging his finger. “The effort is appreciated though.” He picked up the glass Peter slid over to him, examining the brown liquid inside. He swished it around for a second and sniffed at it. “Are you absolutely positive this won't kill me?” he asked. 

“Honestly, Stiles. If I wanted to kill you I would have done it while you were sitting so nicely in my chair for me. Or while I had you alone in your basement. Or while-” the suspicion wasn't entirely unwarranted, but it was still a little annoying.

“Okay, okay. Good point.” He took another tentative sniff and pressed the glass to his lips. 

“Just chug the whole thing, don't taste it. You won't like it.” 

Stiles did as he was told, emptying the cup into his mouth and throwing his head back to down it all in one shot. He coughed after he swallowed, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. 

“Dear god that's dreadful,” he sputtered, sticking out his tongue. 

Peter chuckled. “I'm guessing this isn't the first time you've had hard liquor?” The boy had to be at least eighteen, running his own business at all, but he looked too young to be in his twenties yet. Stiles shook his head. 

“Nope. Did the stereotypical teenage thing in high school, lots of parties, too many hormones,” the boy waved his hand. “You know how it goes.” Peter nodded and swallowed back his own drink. The fiery liquid burned its way down his throat, though he handled it much better than Stiles did. It'd been a long time since he'd had an actual drink, especially with such a lovely young companion. 

“I do indeed,” he said, pouring more into Stiles glass. The humans worries seemed temporarily set aside as he downed the second glass. He stopped him on the third, shaking his head. Peter shrugged and poured a third for himself. 

“How old are you?” Stiles asked, beginning to sway a little in his chair. 

“Where'd you get all those plants from?” 

“Point taken,” Stiles dropped the subject, leaning his head down onto his hands. “Fuck,” he muttered. 

Peter chuckled again. “A little too soon for that; don't you think?” 

Stiles looked up, his expression changed. He didn't look drunk yet, but he didn't look all that sober either. His head tilted to one side as he starred at the wolf. His fingers curled and uncurled against the counter top. Peter starred back at him, sensing immediately the sudden shift in his scent from awkward and excitable to determined and decisive. 

“No, no I don''t,” his voice was so quiet Peter wouldn't have heard him if not for his werewolf hearing. Their lips made contact with a sudden force. Peter growled approvingly, abandoning his glass in favor of holding Stiles hips. Stiles responded in turn, throwing his arms around the wolves shoulders and pressing their bodies tightly together.

He could still taste the trace of alcohol left in Stiles breath. 

\- – – - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - – - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

When Peter woke it was to the deep, rhythmic breathing of someone laying in bed next to him. Something heavy lay on top of his arm and left it numb. That very same heavy thing was making warm puffs of breath against his collarbone. 

He took a minute to gather his thoughts before opening his eyes. He was greeted with the sleeping form of Stiles. The druids head lay on his chest, one arm sprawled over his torso and the other tucked underneath himself. His hair clung to his forehead with the remnants of sweat from the previous night. They were both still naked, though a light blanket covered them up to their waists. 

Peter sighed, and tried to extract himself from being Stiles pillow. 

“Noooo,” Stiles whined when Peter started to move, nuzzling against him. His leg moved over Peters and tried to prevent him from leaving. Peter grunted. His arm was trapped underneath Stiles ribcage as well. He resigned himself to his faint and looked over at the clock, which read 12:47 PM in bright green letters. 

“Stiles,” he grumbled. “Wake up.” He tried shaking Stiles shoulder. The human grunted and curled stubbornly into his side. Peter was almost tempted to lay his head back down and rejoin Stiles in slumber, but the knowledge of his rapidly approaching appointments kept him from doing so. Stiles was adorable, but he had a reputation to keep. 

“Fine, be that way.” He yanked his arm out from under the boy and sat up. 

Stiles fell off of him with a start and a squeak. He opened his eyes and winced, shielding them from the light of the open window with his arms. “Goddamn,” he groaned. “Why the fuck did you wake me up?” 

“Ooooh, someone doesn't handle their alcohol well.” Peter chuckled. “Get up and help me find wherever our clothes wound up.” He looked underneath the bed and found nothing. 

Stiles groaned. “Just let me sleep, please,” he rolled onto his stomach and buried his face in the pillow. Peter got a pleasant sight of his lovely ass as he did. There were two lightly forming bruises on his hips and a bite mark around his throat. For someone who couldn't handle needles he sure took other things rather well. 

“As much as I'd love to keep you here; I have a shop I was supposed to start running an hour ago, and so do you.”

“Noooo,” Stiles whined. Then his head shot up once more. “Wait – ugh,” he winced at the light. “What day is it?” 

“Tuesday.” 

“What time is it?” 

“After noon.” Stiles groaned.

“Fuuuuck.” He clenching the sheets and turned around. “I was supposed to meet with someone.” He scrambled off the bed and looked out the window. He winced as he agitated the bruises scattered across his body. Peter smirked at the light limp in his step. He joined the boy at the window and saw a man in a darkly colored jacket leaning against the florists shop, checking his watch and phone repeatedly. He didn't look like the type to be buying roses for his girlfriend. “Fuck. He's already here.”

"Hunter?" Peter asked, feeling his claws itch to spring forth.

"No," Stiles shook his head. "Warlock who thinks he's found the key to immortality." 

“Well, we'd better find your clothes then, hadn't we? Shame to keep him waiting on eternity.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles gets to meet more of Peters pack.

Peters mind lingered over his strange new neighbor. He hadn't seen him since the night of their drunken rendezvous, and though one night stands weren't unfamiliar to him he was a little ticked that he was on the receiving end this time. It was a point of pride thing. It had nothing to do with the interesting way Stiles eyes shone with the myriad of thoughts passing by, unspoken, behind his eyes, or his clever and witty sense of humor. No, Peter was annoyed because Stiles should have been clamoring for his affections, not running off and leaving him alone like some half-minded twit at a club. 

Then again, he was a druid. Having him in so close could prove to be complicated. On the positive side, if he had any mysterious ailments he wouldn't have to go far to find a solution, and Stiles could be instrumental in making sure his after-hour appointments stayed civil. No werewolf liked to act up when there was a druid with access to wolves bane in the immediate area. 

On the other hand, some of the plants Stiles had in his basement weren't just rare but _lethal_. Especially the red ones hidden behind the glass casing. The sprouts were harmless, but what was the boy planning on doing with them once they reached maturity? It was a question that nagged at him. He hadn't asked because he didn't really care, not if they weren't pointed at him. 

The door 'dinged' open, sending a gentle breeze into the store, carrying the scent of chocolate and caramel with it. He looked up from his client to see a sheepish looking Stiles at his counter, eyes flickering just briefly to the werewolf and the blonde in his chair. Peter couldn't help the small smirk that tugged at his lips. So, he hadn't been able to get away that easily after all. 

“I made you cookies,” Stiles said without waiting for a greeting, “to say thanks for removing the posters.” He shifted his weight from one foot the other. He wore his collar up to hide the small, dark mark Peters lips had left against his pale skin. It was a pleasant reminder, and Peters wolf growled approvingly with the knowledge that there were a dozen others hidden just underneath his shirt. 

“How sweet,” he purred. “They smell tempting, but I'm not sure I trust someone with that much wolfsbane to feed me.” He paused, turning off the gun before Stiles pale face became reacquainted with the floor, which it looked like he might. Evidently having his own arm tattooed had only put him a little more at ease. 

“If I wanted to kill you,” Stiles said, “then I would have done it while you were alone in my basement, not wait until now to feed you a chocolate chip cookie.”

“Oooh, you were alone in someones basement?” Erica purred. She stretched her neck out to look at the boy by the door, flashing him a toothy grin. The blonde she-wolf eyed him with the look of a taunting cat, that had just found a brand new toy to play with. The girl was perhaps his favorite of his fellow packmates, not only because she and her boyfriend were frequent clients of his, but because she was perhaps the most traditionally wolfish. Isaac was too much of a puppy, and Derek was too stony and solemn for him to enjoy their company. 

“Hush, Erica.” Peter warned. Stiles shoulders squared as he looked at the woman on the chair. He was suddenly very stiff, his fingers digging into the basket. 

“He's cute. I approve.” Erica tilted her head to one side and crossed her legs. “What's your name sweetheart?” Stiles eyes were focused on her face, exclusively her face, and not the low-cut tank top she wore or the skirt that barely grazed her thighs. 

“Stiles,” he said. “I live next door. Who are-?”

“Her name is Erica. She's a pack mate of mine.” 

“Oh, so you're another wolf then?” Stiles gave her a soft sort of smile. Any lingering thoughts Peter had that Stiles might be dangerous disappeared in an instant. He was too curious and playful to be evil, like a kitten that hadn't quite grown into his claws yet. 

“She's not a wolf, she's a nuisance,” Peter said, just as soon as Erica opened her mouth. “You don't need to become acquainted with her.” He didn't like the way Ericas smokey eyes were traveling up and down the florists body. 

Erica pushed out her bright red lips in a pout. “I'm not that bad. I only bite when they ask me too,” she fluttered her lashes and the smirk returned to her face. “I can give just as well as I take, too. You want to give me a bite, Stiles?” She held out her hand, her slender wrist upturned. Peter growled lowly. 

Stiles tongue seemed literally caught in his throat as he fumbled for an answer. “Oh, I, uhm-” 

“Watch it,” Peter growled in her ear. “Don't forget who's going to _burn_ you later.”

Erica sighed. “A bite of his _cookies_.” The girl pointed to the basket. “All I wanted was a cookie. No reason for everyone to get so tense.”

“Oh, uh, sure,” Stiles said, the relief visible as his tense shoulders dropped. “I'll just leave them up here then. You're busy, so I'll-” 

“Why don’t you stay and watch, hun? I’m not much of a voyeur, but I don’t mind so much if my audience is as cute as you.” Erica arched her back like a cat in a move that seemed exclusively designed to show off her breasts. Peter growled. 

“Back off, Erica. I mean it.” He flashed his eyes at her. He knew what she was doing, and he didn't like it. 

“Why?” she asked, looking up at Peter with a devilish expression. “Because you’re worried I’ll steal him from you?” Peter seized her chin in a tight grip and forced her head to stay in one spot. He knew Erica was faithful to Boyd, she wouldn't risk anything to her relationship, but she was also a flirt and one who'd picked the wrong florist to play around with. 

“No,” he said quietly so only she could hear. “Because you have a boyfriend. A boyfriend who's got the exact same tattoo on his arm. Now, I really hate doing cover ups, so behave yourself.” He released her in a sudden movement and turned back to Stiles, who'd set the basket down and returned to his normal, fidgety nature. He was playing with the hem of the sleeve as he nervously watched the pair interact. 

“Erica is a nuisance, but you can stay and watch if you'd like.” Erica slumped back against the chair and crossed her arms. “Actually, you may as well. I have to check your skin for infection anyways.” 

“You hurt me, creeper wolf,” she whined. 

“I guess I wouldn't mind getting to watch,” Stiles said a little shyly. He stepped a little closer, out from behind the counter. “It'd probably be good experience.” Erica muttered something under her breath about how she could give him a good experience, and Peter chose to ignore her, rather than put one of his most frequent clients through a window. 

He shied over to Peters side of the chair and looked at the girls arm. Peter had only gotten through the first half of the wolves nose.

“What are you getting?” Stiles asked. In it's current condition the tattoo looked like a rather oddly shaped bird. 

“I'm getting my boyfriends wolf form on my arm, underneath a full moon.” Ericas eyes lightened at the thought of Boyd. “He has mine on his arm, so when we put them together they'll look like they're touching noses. He already got his, but I had to wait until now.” She sighed dramatically. “He would be here if he could be, but he's got _work_.” She stuck her tongue out in distaste.

“Yes, shame on Boyd for being a responsible adult.” Peter muttered. 

“Do you have any other tattoos?” Stiles asked, ignoring Peters comment. 

“Tons, but they're in places Peter wouldn't want me to show you,” Erica winked at him. 

“I'm turning the machine back on,” Peter said, giving Stiles fair warning so he wouldn't have to mop any blood off the floor if the boy fainted. Stiles squinted his eyes a little and cringed. The machine whirred back to life as he pressed it to Ericas skin. He started working on the underside of the wolves muzzle, tracing a clean line up to his nose. 

“So what made you want to become a tattoo artist?” 

“I’ve always wanted to stab a person over six hundred times,” Peter said lightly over the sound of the whirring machine. He tuned his ears into Stiles heartbeat, listening to the quickening pace for a sign he was about to pass out again. “My sister told me to channel it into something more productive and less criminal.”

“Your sister sounds like a smart woman.” 

“She really isn't,” hummed Peter. “Just bossy and self important.” 

“Psssst,” Erica stage-whispered. “Don't press the 'sister' button, he doesn't like the 'sister' button.” Peter flicked his eyes up to hers and pressed the tattoo machine maybe just a tad too hard against her skin. 

“Ouch!” she glared. Peter smirked. 

Stiles hand clasped down onto his shoulder in a tight grip. If he hadn't known any better he would have assumed the boy was trying to break his shoulder, his nails were like talons digging into his skin. He heard a soft whimper. 

“Oh relax,” Peter said. “She's not even bleeding.” This seemed to calm Stiles some as the blunt, human nails digging through his shirt retracted. “At least she won't be if she learns to keep her tongue to herself.” Erica stuck her tongue out at him like the bratty teenager she was. 

“That looks like it hurts more with the ink.” Stiles said meekly. “I let Peter do it on my arm dry and it hurt even without.” 

“You barely felt it, crybaby.” Peter rolled his eyes, focusing on the upper muzzle of the wolves outline. 

“It's not that bad,” Erica said. “You get used to it. If it makes you feel better you can hold my hand-” 

“You can keep squeezing my shoulder if you want.” Peter shot Erica another glare. “But _she_ has somebody else whose hand she can hold if she needs it.” 

Erica rested her head on her hand in a bored expression. “You're no fun.”

Peter put his foot back on the pedal and started to retrace the lines. Stiles hand gripped onto his shoulder again. He could feel the small tremble running up and down the boys body, but he hadn't fainted yet and that was a drastic improvement. He stopped the tattoo only once more to pat Stiles hand lightly before he focused in again on the outline. He finished just as the sun started to go down. 

“I'm not going to be able to start the colors today,” Peter said, stepping off the pedal. Erica looked up from her magazine and blinked down at the black and white wolf etched in her skin. 

“But you said it'd only be a couple of hours,” she whined.

“Yes, but we had _interruptions_ , remember?” she looked up at the ceiling in mock thoughtfulness. “Come back tomorrow and I'll finish the colors.” 

Stiles leaned in closer to look at her marked skin. 

“You might not want too-” Peter tried to warn, but it was too late. 

Erica sharply grasped the chair with her claws, grunting in pain she clenched her eyes shut. 

Stiles jumped at the pained noises the shewolf made. The skin around her tattoo reddened. She grasped tighter onto the chair, digging her claws in deep to the fabric. The red lines turned white hot as the ink started to fade. 

“It's just the healing factor,” Peter was quick to say. “It burns a little, but she's fine.” 

“Boils, actually,” Erica grinned through gritted teeth. “Ugh. They should really make werewolf painkillers.” The lines on Ericas arm started to hiss as they receded back into her arm, disappearing beneath the surface like snakes made of black and gray. 

“Nope, nope nope. Don't like that.” Stiles voice shifted up in octave as he shook his head. “Not okay with that. Not okay at all.” His heartbeat raced and he took a step back, covering his face with his hands. 

“Well then sit down, idiot.” Peter stood from his chair and pushed Stiles into it just as his face went from pale to ghostly. “I thought you said it was needles that bothered you, not pain?”

“Yes, pain and apparently skin literally boiling and making hissing noises!” Stiles snapped. He drew his knees up to his chest and dropped his head down onto them. His arms wrapped around his legs in a tight hug as he compressed himself into the smallest space possible. 

Erica took a deep breath as the pain finally ended. Her skin lost all trace of damage, but underneath Peters wolf eyes could see the wolf and the moon painted clearly among her skin cells. He felt proud. It was one of his best realistic drawings, second only to the one of Erica herself. 

“How can you be okay with that?” Stiles asked, swaying a little in the chair. Peter placed his hands on Stiles shoulders and held him in place. The last thing he needed was to drag Stiles home again. The boys head was still in between his knees, keeping his breath a deep, steady rhythm. His heart at the very least had calmed down from it's jackhammer like tempo.

Erica looked surprisingly pensive for a moment. 

“Its worth it,” she finally decided, “if it means Boyd gets to look at my arm and see how much I love him every day. Pain is always worth the pleasure.” Her stupid smarmy grin returned. 

“That's sort of noble, I guess,” Stiles said. 

“Are you going to be alright?” she asked. Peter slapped away the hand she reached out for the human with. She growled at the older werewolf and rubbed the back of her hand as if she'd actually been hurt by it. Stiles nodded at her. 

“He'll be just fine. I'll see you _tomorrow_ , Erica.” She finally took the hint and stood from the chair in a fluid motion. 

“Bye, Stiles!” she called back cheerfully as she headed towards the door. “It was nice meeting you!” She paused conspicuously by the basket of cookies on the counter. Peter sensed her intention and moved forward, between her and the human. 

“Likewise,” Stiles mumbled queasily. 

Erica reached for the basket. Peter smacked her hands away before she could run off with the entire thing. “ _One_ ,” he cautioned. “He said you can have _one_.” 

“One for me and one for Boyd,” she said, snagging two off the top of the pile and running out of the door before anyone could chastise her. 

Peter rolled his eyes and carried the basket back over to Stiles and set it by the boys feet. He'd managed to lift his head and the sickly shade of white that covered his face was his normal sickly shade of white. He held out a cookie towards the boy. He took it with trembling hands.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles and Peter fall victim to Ericas conniving nature.

“You know these cookies were supposed to be for you,” Stiles sighed as he bit into a chocolate corner. At least he wasn't swaying anymore.

“Isn't sugar supposed to help fainters?” Peter pressed a hand to Stiles forehead. His temperature was fine, too. Stiles took another bite of the cookie, getting some crumbs and smudges on his fingers. 

“Yeah,” he said while chewing. “But so far only Erica and I have eaten them. You haven't even touched one. I'm starting to feel a little offended.” 

“Well we wouldn't want that, would we? Let me check you out, then I'll have one.” 

“You were actually waiting for permission to check me out?” Stiles raised a brow. “Most people just do it when you aren't looking.” Even half lucid he was still a smartass. Peter grabbed a stool and set it next to the boy, as an afterthough the also pulled the bottle of disinfectant and a cotton ball off the shelf. 

“You know what I mean. Pull up your shirt.”

“Well if you insist,” Stiles wiggled his brows and obediently pulled his sleeve up to reveal the worried patch of skin. Peter examined it closely, brushing over it with his thumb. 

“Hm, you've actually been taking care of it. If only all my clients could be like you.” He ruffled Stiles hairs, just to see him furrow his brow and puff out his cheeks like an angry hamster. A few cookie crumbs fell from his chin to the floor. 

“Because then you'd have to hold them down. Ninety percent of your customer base would have fainted within the first five minutes if they were all like me.” 

“Don't talk with your mouth full,” Peter scolded. He took the disinfectant and wiped it lightly over the already fading marks. Soon they would be gone completely. He felt a small wedge of remorse over that fact. Stiles skin was a beautiful canvas. He would have liked to create some more permanent art over it.

“It looks good,” he said, letting a bit too much of his feelings drip into the words. They came out sounding remorseful, rather than relieved. 

Stiles licked the tips of his fingers. “Will you have a cookie now?” he asked. 

“Fine,” said Peter, reaching down and grabbing one of the treats from the basket. It was soft enough to still be pliable under his fingers. He tentatively sniffed the corner as if he hadn't been smelling them all day. He took a small bite. 

“It's good,” he said, maybe a little more surprised than he should have been. The boy was so spastic and uncertain he just assumed a skilled task such as baking would have eluded him. He didn't seem like the type for patience and careful calculations. Stiles grinned at the praise. 

“Thanks. I didn't even use a mix or anything. I am an excellent chef. Nobody can make things taste better than I can.” He puffed out his chest in pride. 

Peter smirked. “Oh, I know one way to make it taste better.” 

Stiles scoffed. “Prove it!” 

Peter intended too. He seized Stiles wrist and held his hand in place near his face. He licked the small smidgeon of chocolate off of his thumb. Stiles shoulders tensed. He could hear his blessed little heart beat another hasty tune. 

“See? Now it's salty and sweet,” he purred near Stiles ear. He pushed his sleeve up a little more so he could see the mark made by his mouth along Stiles shoulder. The boy kept his eyes on him and leaned closer, until their faces were incredibly close. 

“You have such perfect skin,” Peter remarked, brushing over his bite mark. “I want to mark it again.” 

“If you leave the needles out of it-” Stiles said with a husk in his voice, “-I’ll let you.” Peter smirked, showing his teeth. 

“Oh, I like you,” he growled into the boys ear. 

\------- - - - - – - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - – - - - - - - 

“Why flowers?” Peter asked when all the biting, writhing, and moaning was done. 

“Hm?” Stiles lifted his head from Peters chest. His hands traced invisible patterns over the wolves bare skin. His naked body lay prone against his side. 

“Why flowers? You could have done a million and one things other than become a florist, and yet that's still the one you chose.” 

“Oh, yeah? Like what other things?” Peter ran his hand down Stiles spine to the small of his back. His skin was still wet and warm from the heat of the shower. 

“Even if you can't afford much schooling you could have still become a masseuse, phlebotomist, a pharmacy technician – the list goes on. A vet assistant.” 

Stiles laughed. “I wish you'd been around when I was making my decision.” He nuzzled Peters cheek while he thought. His hairs were still just a bit sweaty. 

“I guess . . . I just like flowers. Not just flowers, all plants really. I've always been kind of fascinated with how they function, ever since high school. See, we had this gardening project -”

“Your school taught gardening?” 

Stiles pursed his lips. “We had a few very bad semesters – the kind involving kanimas, omegas, and banshees – and our teachers thought maybe we needed a more relaxing subject. Anyways, we had this project where we were supposed to take care of a potted plant-”

“Let me guess, you did famously and discovered your one true calling?” 

“You know, for someone who sure likes telling stories you're awfully bad at listening to them, you know that?” 

“Sorry, sorry. Continue.” Peter hummed. 

“Actually, I kind of fucked the whole thing up,” he said sheepishly. “I forgot to water it, I gave it too much light; by the end of the semester my plant was basically a yellow, wilted mess. My teacher said I could still get an A on the project if I could bring it back to life. He showed me how to trim the leaves, prune the dead things, revitalize the soil. A few weeks later my plant was good as new. I guess I just kind of liked that. After all I'd done to ruin it I still managed to save it. It was a little odd and a little misshapen, but it was alive. It started growing new leafs a few days after that.

“Things don't always work out so well among humans – or weres.” The humans face grew distant. His fingers kneaded lightly over Peters bare chest. 

Peter thought of a much younger Stiles nurturing and tending to a mangled houseplant he himself had destroyed. If he'd been in that situation he probably would have let the thing die. He'd always believed there were certain things – people – that were so decayed they'd rather not remain. He liked permanence, he sought forever, but he could see Stiles point of view too. He could see how the vibrant, lively, human would be drawn to that ideology. 

“So that's why you decided to become a florist, so you could fix all your fuck ups?” 

Stiles chuckled. “Yeah,” he nodded. “That's what makes plants so special.” His eyelids dropped as he finished his sentence in a yawn. “They can all be saved.” 

Peter let Stiles fall asleep on his chest. His head lay on his collarbone, his one arm draped across his torso, and the other tucked underneath his own body. His feet pressed against the wolves ankles while he slept, stomach rising and falling in time with his own, soft breathes. He was like a flower in his own way, soft, pretty, and pale, but with an uncanny resilience.

Peter watched him sleep, gently stroking his back from the nap of his neck down to the small of his back until, at last, sleep came for him too. 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - 

“What makes you think I like you enough to let you stay?” Peter asked, standing up from the bed with a yawn. Stiles had thus far refused to move from his position cuddling the pillow. 

“The amount of wolfsbane I have in my basement, and the knowledge that I'll _use it_ if you try to make me get up early on a day off.” Stiles nuzzled into the pillow and squinted one eye open in a glare. It was hard to look threatening with bite marks covering his shoulders, throat, and torso, but somehow he managed to make it work. 

Peter smacked him firmly on the ass. 

“Hey!” Stiles cried, shooting up and glaring at the werewolf. He winced as he put pressure on the bruised cheek. 

“I'm only letting you stay because I don't want to drag your ass back to your building.” 

“Works for me,” Stiles flopped back down on the mattress.

Peter huffed and took a quick shower. When he came back into the bedroom Stiles was sprawled out on the mattress, face down in the pillow he'd claimed. His chest moved up and down in the rhythmic pattern of light sleep. Peter dressed quietly so as not to wake the boy and headed downstairs to start his pre-opening prep. 

Upon setting foot in the shop Peter regretted letting Stiles sleep in. A mess of scattered clothes and cookie crumbs littered the floor. He was professional enough not to have sex in one of his own chairs, but he had no reservations about the counter. The batch of cookies had been knocked over somewhere between taking off each others clothes and seeing how many hickeys Peter could stack on Stiles throat. He tossed the clothes back upstairs and with a reluctant sigh set about getting the shop back in order. It was only after he'd finished mopping up the chocolate smears that Stiles came stumbling down the staircase. 

He wore the same clothes as the previous day, along with the new addition of Peters favorite jacket around his athletic shoulders. Peter ignored the twitch in his pants at the sight of Stiles, sleepy, bite-marked, and wearing his clothing. He coughed behind his hand. 

“Yes?” Stiles asked, blinking the sleep from his eyes. The jacket was long enough that only his fingertips poked out through the sleeves. 

“I believe that's mine.” 

Stiles shrugged.“You owe it to me.” 

“And how is that, exactly?” 

“Well, let's see. I made you cookies, I slept with you – twice now – and also I gave you a variety of wolfsbane for free. I think that about adds up to one free jacket.” Peter raised a brow. 

“You're forgetting the part where I had to tattoo you, I let you sleep in my bed, and I dragged you back to your apartment when you hit your head. Also you got crumbs all over my floor. I should have made you sweep it up yourself.” He motioned towards the dust pan full of cookie debris. 

“You also threatened me and _caused_ the fainting, so one more point for Stiles, actually make that two. That gives me a total of five.” The boy smirked. 

“Well let's make it a solid six and I'll do you another favor; I've got a client coming by in about fifteen minutes, so you might want to make yourself scarce.” He neglected to tell him that Erica was his client, he knew she'd be back bright and early to finish up her coloring. 

Stiles yawned and arched his back. “Thanks for the warning, but I’m keeping the jacket. I like it.” He made a show of sticking his hands in the pockets and rubbing his cheek against the shoulder. 

Peter rolled his eyes. “I like it too, that's why I _bought_ it.” He made no effort to reach out and snag it back as Stiles passed. He could always get it from the young florist later, anyways. Preferably when Stiles was willing to leave it on his bedroom floor. 

Stiles stomach rumbled as he moved towards the door. “Do you think maybe next time I could get breakfast?” 

“A free jacket and a breakfast? You'd have to get up very early – or stay up very late – for that kind of treatment, darling.” 

“Maybe next time, then,” Stiles said with a grin and a wave as he headed out the door. Peter watched him as he went. A flickering thought went through his mind. His chest swelled proudly with the knowledge that his jacket would keep his scent on Stiles for as long as he wore it. 

For a singular minute there was blissful, tranquil silence as he organized his supplies for the day. Then it was interrupted by a shrill voice dressed in leather and high-heel boots. 

“Peter!” Erica called cheerfully, flouncing into the room with her golden hair bouncing behind her. “Look who we found!” A rather disgruntled Stiles was being dragged back inside the shop by Boyd. 

“What have I told you about taking things that don't belong to you, Erica?” the woman pouted. Today her lips were painted a shade of deceptive pink, instead of the usual scarlet. 

“I just wanted to get to know my new best friend, is all.” Her eyes twinkled with a mischievous glint. “I saw him leave here _before_ store hours, Peter, you dog! He's even wearing your clothes.” She grinned like a teenager who just discovered one of his dirty secrets. Peter shrugged. He only wanted to keep Stiles hidden for the boys benefit, not his own. 

Already Stiles was looking exhausted with Ericas presence. “I have to go home and do laundry, and other chores that make me miserable.” He yawned and covered his mouth with his free hand. “Can I please go home, please? Once I'm finished I'd like to sleep until sunset.” 

Boyd released his arm with an approving nod. “As noble a goal if ever there was one.” 

“You're not working today?” Erica turned to him. The mischievous twinkle transformed into a mischievous glow. 

“Stiles, don't answer-” 

“Yeah,” the boy nodded. Peter could have face palmed. “I was going to spend it-” 

“Excellent! After I get my coloring done you are _so_ coming to the club with us.” She turned to Peter. “Won't that be fun?” Peter flashed yellow eyes at her. Losing a packmate was like losing a limb, but he was starting to feel that survival would be a lot easier without this one, specific limb. 

He lifted his lips in a snarl at the shewolf. Using Stiles as bait for one of their pack nights was low, even by his standards. 

“That does kind of sound like fun,” Stiles said with a nod. He yawned again. “So long as I can go home and take a nap first.” 

“They're just using you as bait to force me into pack night, Stiles. Don't bother indulging them.” 

“Maybe,” Erica admitted without shame. “That doesn't mean we won't have a good time. What do you say, Stiles? Want to come out with us and drag Peter along?”

Stiles looked to Peters face, and then down at Ericas, then up at Boyd who merely shrugged, uninvested in the whole situation. 

“I want too,” he said. “But I don't have any club worthy clothing. I'm not sure khakis and polo shirts are allowed, are they?” Peter clung to his one strand of hope. 

Erica frowned. She grabbed onto his arms and held them out as far as they would go. She looked up and down the humans chest with scrutiny. Stiles looked like a bat the way the sleeves of the jacket hung down on him. 

“We could raid Isaacs closet?” The strand of hope was promptly torn to shreds. 

“Isaacs too tall for him.” Boyd ran a hand through Stiles hair, attempting to spike it. “He'd look way too swamped.” Stiles shook his head and his hairs fell back into place. 

“Well then, I guess you'll just have to wear Peters clothes,” Erica smirked an evil, devilish smirk. “He has lots of good outfits, and he probably wouldn't mind sharing anyways.” The glow became a wildfire. That would be her downfall. Peter was very adept at handling fire. 

“Erica, I would like to remind you who'll be _burning_ you later.” 

\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

“These don't really feel like 'club' clothes, Peter.” Stiles scratched at the fabric of a black sweater. He came over wearing a pair of his own skinny jeans, but with the view he was giving Peter wasn't about to complain. All he knew was that he didn't want any unwelcome eyes gazing upon his Stiles and getting any ideas into their heads. The more covered he was the better. Perhaps he could convince Isaac to lend him a couple of scarves. He at least let Stiles keep his jacket. It did look nice on him, and it carried a nice, strong scent with it. 

“You look fine,” he said. Burning the tattoo into Ericas' skin had been a very much needed stress reliever. Especially after she practically forced her contact information into Stiles cellphone. 

“Erica told me to text her a picture of my outfit.” He angled the camera for a photo. Peter snatched the phone from Stiles hands before he could press a button. 

“You look fine,” he reiterated. “Trust me on this. Let's go.” 

“Wait!” Stiles grabbed his phone back and held it up into the air. The flash went off as it snapped both of them in a photo. Stiles grinned. “Now we can go!” 

Peter locked up the shop and walked with the human down to where the shop owners and residents parked. The small parking lot boasted a $10 per night rate, but the residents were given a hefty discount. 

Stiles approached an old, rusted looking jeep on the far side of the parking lot. Peter had always assumed the car was permanently stuck there. It moved in the same day Stiles did and hardly left since. 

He looked at the jeep like a proud parent. “This is my car.” 

“That isn't a car, it's a relic,” Peter sneered. “It'll break down as soon as we get into town. There's no way I'm riding in that thing.”

“Are you kidding me? Listen, this baby has outrun wendigos, werewolves, and one time a very irate banshee! This jeep has saved _lives_. Literal and metaphorical lives!” Stiles through his hands into the air in outrage. 

“No, I don't think so,” said Peter, looking at the rusted pile of blue metal Stiles referred to as a car. That thing was as close to a car as a wheelbarrow was. “We'll take my car. Come.” 

“But, but my baby,” the boy said. Peter turned to see him hugging the hood of the jeep.

“I hope your tetanus shot is up to date.” He wrinkled his nose. “ _This_ is my baby.” Peter pointed to his pride and joy, a sleek black car that was polished to a fine sheen. Stiles eyes widened like a kid in a candy store. 

“That's a nice car,” the boy praised. He looked at it with adoration of a love-struck puppy. 

“I know,” Peter said with a smirk. “Now get in.” Stiles gave one last, guilty look at his jeep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks all for the nice comments and kudos :D it makes my day n.n


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles and Peter go to the club with Erica and the rest of the pack. 
> 
> Thanks all for the nice comments n.n

The base was so loud the floor practically shook, or maybe that was the drunken staggering of feet on the dance floor. Peter took Stiles hand and guided him along the wall to a small booth. He saw Erica and shoved Stiles into the furthest seat away from her. She looked up with a bright-toothed grin. Somehow she'd managed to find an outfit that showed even more cleavage than the one she'd been wearing before. Beside her Boyd sat with his arm wrapped around her waist.

“Why did you dress him like skin is a sin? Could he _be_ anymore covered up?” Her bright grin dropped to a scowl. She wore a tank top that showed off her new tattoo, which made Peter proud. He enjoyed seeing the way color of the moon reflected off of the flashing lights in the club. Boyds tattoo had the same effect, only with a lighter colored wolf instead. His wolf looked up towards the sky with mischievous, playful eyes reminiscent of Erica. 

Peter shrugged. “He looks just fine.” 

Stiles was self consciously shrugging off the jacket. Peter grabbed his hand and forced him to stop. He nodded at the man sitting beside him. 

“Derek,” he greeted politely at his nephew who'd managed to worm his way into the smallest corner of the booth, looking very uncomfortable. Beside him Isaac chuckled. The blonde werewolf stirred some sort of neon drink the color of radioactive waste. 

“Hello,” Stiles said meekly, waving his hand. Derek didn't bother greeting his uncle before turning to the boy. 

“You're Stiles?” he said it like an accusation. 

“I'd like to ask who you are, but, Peter's told me literally nothing about any of you.”

“Typical of him.” Derek gave his uncle an unfriendly look. 

“Derek, Isaac, Boyd, Erica,” Peter rattled off without giving any indication of who was who. “Now you know.” 

“Stiles, look at my tattoo!” Erica reached her arm across the table, nearly knocking over Isaacs drink in the process. He pulled it back just in time and glared at her. 

Stiles clenched his eyes shut tightly. “Is it safe?” 

“Of course! It's all healed up, no horrible wounds required!” Stiles doubtfully squinted one eye open. Her skin was unmarred, save for the splashes of color. 

“Oh. You know when I heard the shouting from my store I thought maybe Peter decided to murder you.” He leaned in close to look at artwork. 

“He tried.” Yet one more glare directed towards Peter. “He was a little more liberal with that blowtorch than was really required.” 

“I warned you.” Peter rested his hand on the small of Stiles back. Stiles was too engrossed in examining Ericas tattoo to notice, but beside him Derek let out an uncomfortable cough. He looked from Peters hand to Peters face, then down at the hand again. Peter slid it from the boys back to his hip, pulling Stiles closer to his side. Stiles looked up at him with admiring brown eyes that reflected well the changing colors around him. 

“It's really good, Peter!” 

“Thank you,” Peter pecked his forehead. “Boyds has nicer coloring, but the shading came out better on Erica.” Boyd held his arm out so Stiles could compare them. 

Peter let himself revel for a moment in Stiles admiration of his art form. The process was painful, ugly, and awful, but the end result was always beautiful. Sometimes it wasn't even that painful, and what little pain was necessary amounted to a lifetime of beauty. 

“How come you don't have any tattoos?” Stiles asked as Boyd and Erica entwined their fingers and put their hands back down by their sides. 

“Because I can't do them on myself. I wouldn't trust anyone else with my perfect skin,” he flashed a brilliant smile at the boy. 

“A.K.A. he's a narcissist.” Isaac piped up, taking another sip of his drink. He leaned his head down against Dereks shoulder. “Stiles, blink twice if you're here against your will. We'll hold him back.”

“Believe me, I wanted to stay home today. It's Erica who kidnapped him.” Peter rolled his eyes. 

“And right now Erica wants to dance!” She stood from the table and held her arm out to Boyd. Boyd took it stood up with her. “Isaac, Stiles, join us.” Erica implored. “Peter come too.”

Peter looked out at the dance floor and the pile of bodies writhing around like earthworms on the dance floor. He thought of Stiles in the middle of that pile along side Erica, Isaac, and Boyd. 

“I'd rather get a drink first. Stiles?” He dragged Stiles up without really waiting for a response. The boy didn't protest as he took his hand and led him towards the bar. 

“What do you want?” he asked, looking at Stiles. 

“Rum and coke?” Peter repeated the order to the bartender, adding a second drink for himself. 

“So what's up with Derek? Why's he look at you like you killed his puppy?” 

“That's just his face.”

Stiles chuckled. “No really, what happened?” 

Peter sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “He somehow got it into his brain that I'm manipulating, and or, taking advantage of you.”

“But you aren't?” 

“No, I'm not. Unfortunately, Derek thinks it's not just his job, but his responsibility to 'save' every young adult that comes into his life, from whatever inane thing troubles them. Such as Isaac, Erica, and Boyd.”

Stiles frowned. “So they weren't always wolves?” 

Peter shook his head. “They started out human. Derek convinced his mother to offer them the bite. She almost didn't. I wouldn't have.”

“Why not?” 

“Because not everyone with a sob story deserves – or should accept – the bite. They all think it will solve their problems, make them more popular, stronger, _invincible_ , and it will. But it doesn't solve their problems, just changes them.” Stiles bit his lip and looked out on at the floor, where Boyd and Erica were dancing against each other. Erica was smiling, and so was Boyd. Back at the booth Derek and Isaac looked into each others eyes with the same stupid happy affection. 

“Would you take the bite, Stiles, if I had her offer it to you?” his ears tuned into Stiles heartbeat, which beat a parallel rhythm with the music. 

“No,” he answered honestly. “I know that. I've never wanted to be a wolf, never will,” he shrugged. “No offense to you or anything. I just know who I am inside.” 

The bartender placed their drinks down in front of them. Stiles was quick to grab his and take a mouthful.

Peter took a drink of his own, letting the strong, bitter liquid slide down his throat with ease. The boy seemed to notice the second drink for the first time.

“Hey,” he had to shout to make himself heard over the music. “How come you're getting alcohol if you can't get drunk?” 

“It's a werewolf club, darling.” Peter winked. He motioned to the neon moons hanging up at random around the venue. 

Stiles looked around. “I feel like a sheep,” he announced, pulling the jacket a little tighter around his shoulders. 

“You smell like one too. Drink up,” Peter picked up the glass and held it to Stiles lips. Stiles tilted his head back and let Peter pour a generous amount into his mouth. He swallowed and wiped his mouth on his leather sleeve. 

“No one's going to eat me, are they?” 

“Someone might,” Peter smirked. 

“Oh shut up!” 

“Make me.” With just as much enthusiasm as the first night they were together, Stiles seized him by the shoulders and pressed their lips tightly together. Peter placed the glass back on the counter and put his own hands on Stiles waist. He tasted like alcohol. It didn't matter. He pulled Stiles closer to him and kissed him deeper.

“I hate to interrupt-” 

“If you hate it then don't do it,” he grumbled against Stiles lips. It was too late, the boy was already beginning to pull away. He made a few, ragged gasps for breath. 

“-but I want to dance with Stiles.” Erica had her hands on her hips and was tapping her foot impatiently. 

“We were kind of in the middle of something,” Stiles said in between pants. 

“Wouldn't you rather be 'in the middle of something' later tonight?” The blonde wiggled her brows suggestively. “I'm not leaving until you dance with me.” Stiles hands dropped from around Peters neck. Peter nodded at him permissibly. 

“Go have fun, just don't go too far.” Stiles nodded and followed Erica back to the middle of the room, looking back at Peter every so often. Peter sat and sipped his drink while he watched the human making a fool of himself and smiled. His dancing was less 'dance' and more 'jerk,' but he still managed to make it look cute. 

It wasn't long before he was joined by a less companionable soul. Derek took up Stiles vacated seat. Even in the overly perfumed air the smell of Isaac clung to him. 

“What are your intentions with that boy?” Dereks thick brows were angled further down than usual. 

“Are you his father?” Peter asked with a sigh. “Should I be paying someone a dowry, or courting him via mail first?” 

“Peter.” Derek growled. 

“I don't want anything with him.” 

Derek took it the wrong way, his claws digging into the wood of the counter. “Does _he_ know that?” 

“Oh, if you mean sex, then yes I want plenty with him. I've already gotten plenty too-” Derek slammed his fist against the bar. The drinks clinked around as they were jostled. The werewolf bartender growled at them warningly. Peter didn't bother turning to see the dent that was undoubtedly there. 

“He's what? Eighteen?” 

“He's at least twenty, and either way that makes him an adult. I'm not taking advantage of him.” 

“You might not think so, but Stiles is a kid-” 

“He's over twenty. What makes you think I've done anything wrong? Stiles came here of his own free will, by _Ericas_ demand. I didn't drag him out tonight.” Derek opened his mouth to argue again. “Oh look, Ethans grinding on Isaac.” 

“What?” Derek shot off into the crowd, an angry look in his eyes and a bouncer on his tail. Peter chuckled and took another sip of his drink. 

There was a loud scuffling sound as the writhing mass of bodies broke up and spread out in a tight circle. A minute later and Stiles popped through the crowed of people. He was back in his chair a moment later. 

“Derek is-” 

“I know. Don't worry about it, just finish your drink.” 

\- - - -

Dragging a drunk Stiles across the street was even less fun than a concussed Stiles. The boy giggled incessantly and threw himself into any hard, flat surface they came across. It was almost as if he _liked_ doing it. 

“Ow!” he giggled, letting Peter help him up off the ground for the fifth time. “The ground is hard.” His brown hair was messed in every direction. He hugged the leather jacket close to his chest as Peter pulled him to his feet by his shirt. 

“Yes, it is.” Peter said, smiling at the boy. “But I need you to open the door so I can get you inside.” 

“The door? What door?” he made it to his feet and stumbled. “Where's the door?” 

“The door to your house, Stiles. You need to open it.” 

“Ooooh,” Stiles nodded. “I have the key. It's in my pocket. It hurt when I fell on it.”

“I'm sure it did.” Peter patiently supported him while he fumbled around in his pockets. Stiles furrowed his brow as he grasped around inside. For a second Peter worried he'd have to dump him back in his bed for the night. Not that he minded sharing a bed with the boy, but he'd seen how much alcohol he consumed over the past few hours, and he would rather not have to clean that up off his sheets. 

“Here, let me,” he sighed when Stiles just starred at the silver ring of keys. He easily plucked them out of his hands and unlocked the door. “You're on your own for the gate though.” 

“Wait, are you leaving?” Stiles asked as he was pulled inside. 

“Well, no,” he mused. 

“Okay, cause if you left me then it'd definitely be another point for me!” Stiles stumbled and grasped onto the gate for support. “Ugh, I don't feel good.” 

“I know, that's why I want to get you into bed. Please don't make me use your body to force the gate open, Stiles. I like your body.” Stiles shook his head and fumbled a little with the lock. 

“Is just a little tricky sometimes, I'll get it don't worry. Okay, okay, almost. Okay. . . I got it!” The gate swung open. Peter caught Stiles just in time to avoid watching him brain himself on yet another inanimate object. 

“Off to bed with you then.” 

“Nooo! I don't want to sleep! I think we should make out first. Then sleep. First make out, yes.” 

Peter chuckled. “If you could find the wall, let alone my face I'd let you try.” 

“Boooo!” Stiles shouted as he was hefted up the stairs. 

The boys apartment had the exact same layout as his own. He found the bedroom in the same location as well. The only difference between them was Stiles small, twin bed instead of his king. He let Stiles face plant onto it. He joined him a second later, needing to squish Stiles against the wall so that they would both fit. 

“We're only sleeping in my bed from now on,” Peter grumbled, taking off his shoes. Stiles were still in the backseat of his car. 

“Wha' makes you think I like you enough, to let you in here again?” The intoxicated human asked pointedly. 

Peter lay down and grabbed the covers, pulling them up over Stiles shoulders. 

“If for no other reason – my bed is a lot comfier than yours. And you owe it to me.”


	7. Chapter 7

Stiles and Peter continued to debate over whom really owed who. At the end of the day, the favor would always be returned to Peter, meaning each and every afternoon Stiles felt compelled to repay his debt.

The boy would close his shop at two, and be over at Peters by three. He flopped down in his usual chair beside the wolf, smelling like caramel and honey, chocolate and hibiscus, or any other combination of sweet and floral scents. It was addictive, and even Peters clients came to look forward to the squeamish boys arrival if only for the treats he provided. Plus, Stiles was an exceptional conversationalist, which left Peter free to avoid all the small talk and chit chatting that came with owning a service business. 

Stiles fear of needles lessened, though he never could quite look at the machine head-on. He no longer flinched when he heard it whirring to life or buzzing as it dotted along untarnished skin and left motley traces behind.

“C'mon, try one,” Stiles tempted, waving the cookie underneath Peters nose. Peter turned his head away. 

“I don't like chocolate,” he admitted. “Or caramel, or sugar.” 

Stiles scoffed. “You really are Satan, aren't you? Who doesn't like sugar?” He dropped the rejected cookie back into the almost empty basket. 

“I prefer things that are a little saltier,” Peter purred, seizing Stiles wrist and licking a few lasting remnants of chocolate from his fingers. “Like you.” 

Stiles laughed and pulled his hand away. “Yeah, apparently you also like _cheese_.” His grin was wide as he wiped his hand on his shirt. Peter leaned in again and kissed him lightly. 

They never said 'I love you.' They never even tried. The only sign they needed were the permanent bite marks that had come to be a fixture upon Stiles skin. They weren't tattoos but they were still art and he could settle for the difference. 

Stiles was quick to be gone once the clients returned to have their tattoos burned in. Burning and blood were still out of the question for him. Peter felt for few people, but he felt for the unfortunate wolf who'd need to rely on Stiles in a moment of crisis.

Their pattern became such a habit that Peter knew without having to check the clock when Stiles was late. He looked out the window and saw the florists sign had been switched to closed, and the lights in Stiles room were on upstairs. But there was no sign of him. He could not see him moving around in the kitchen, and the window hadn't been opened to let out the smell of baked goods. 

Something was wrong. Stiles was _always_ there. 

Peter checked his appointment book briefly. No one else was scheduled for the rest of the day. He flipped his store sign to closed and locked the door behind him as he left. He told himself that he'd only check up on Stiles, and if he heard him moving around inside he'd leave and go back to his shop.

He peered in through one of the large glass windows that displayed a variety of large ferns. Stiles basement door was open. He would never have left that door open. The creeping feeling that something was wrong slid down his spine like a snake against his back. It coiled and wrapped tight around the pit of his stomach. 

He tried to pull the handle of the door open, but it was locked. He yanked it open so hard the handle snapped off in his hand, but the door was wide open now. 

Peter stepped inside. 

From the outside of the building it looked like all was normal – save for the basement door – but the inside was a completely different matter. 

On the floor he could see the remnants of pots that had shattered on the ground, scattering dirt and plant debris along the tiled floors. The basement door had been slammed shut with such a fury that it rebounded and splintered the wood on one side. 

“Stiles?” he called out. No one responded. The air smelt wrong. It smelt like copper. The white wooden gate had been splintered. Peter sniffed the air. The bloody smell was coming from down the stairs. 

He opened the door slowly so it wouldn't creak. He wedged his body in as soon as it was open enough for him to fit. Then he let the door quietly shut behind him. His footfalls were light as he descended, the coppery scent of blood thickening. He fought the urge to snarl. He paused on the last step of the stairs. Underneath the layer of blood he could smell the sour scent of an unfamiliar man. 

He was standing by the flower cases, the one containing the bright red wolfsbane smashed open. Most of the sprouts were missing, several others were torn apart and discarded on the floor. The man walked right over the glass shards in combat boots as he raided the rest of the shelves. On top of his head he wore a black cap, in his left hand he held a gun.

Stiles was sitting on the floor, only half his face visible under the offset light. On the visible side of his face a purple bruise was beginning to form, along with another on his temple. His lip was split and he was worrying it with his teeth anxiously. Peter could smell his blood more strongly here, could see a trace of it against the counter. It wasn't as bad as he thought, but it still wasn't good. He dug his nails into his palms. That man made Stiles bleed. His Stiles. Bleeding. His eyes flashed dangerously. His nails flicked out before he could control himself. 

He roared. 

The man turned back, gripping shotgun in his hand. He swore and fired off a round. Peter dodged it and lunged at the man. He hit him full force in the chest and sent the man sprawling to the ground, Peter falling down along with him. His hands held the mans throat tight. His fangs jutted from his teeth and he snarled a deadly snarl. The mans eyes widened at him. He frantically grasped onto his wrist and tried to yank it from around his throat. Peter refused to let up, tightening his grip. He raised a clawed hand to slash the man wide open. 

“Peter! Peter don't,” a small voice wheezed. Peter turned to him, yellow eyes flashing and narrowed. His lips were still curled up over his fangs. 

Stiles looked at him with one wide eye, the other shut from swelling. “Don't. Please.” 

Peter looked from Stiles to the man. _Blood._ Blood made Stiles faint. He wouldn't make Stiles faint. It took him a minute to regain his control, then he retracted his claws and gave Stiles a small nod. He felt the man breath a puffing breath of relief. He grasped him by the hair and slammed his head down against the ground. There was no blood as he was knocked unconscious. The hand the man had grasped around Peters wrist went limp. In his rage Peter hadn't even noticed the humans nails broke his skin. 

Stiles winced at the violent sound. Peter dropped the unconscious body and moved to Stiles side. He pulled the boy into a hug, careful not to touch any of his wounded areas. 

“What happened? Why didn't you call for me?” he breathed. 

Stiles fell back into his arms. “I tried, but the place is soundproof,” he smiled bitterly. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.” 

“It probably was. No one would have heard the gun shot.” He looked towards the opposite wall where the bullet had embedded itself into the far wall. His grip on Stiles tightened at the thought of the gun having been aimed at the human instead. He snarled protectively. 

“He didn't hurt you, did he?” Stiles looked up at him with a trembling lip. “You're okay, right?” 

“I will heal. I always do.” He kissed Stiles on the cheek, avoiding his bruises. “What did that man want?” 

“Plants. The red ones. He wanted me to give them to him so he could make some kind of bomb.” Stiles shuddered. “He wanted to set it off in a city, 'kill all the rabid dogs at once,' he kept saying. He was crazy.”

“What city? Did he have partners?” His mind raced through a list of all the hunters who had the means and the mentality to do such a thing. 

“I think he was alone. Please, Peter, can we get out of here? I don't want to be down here with him.” Peter gently helped Stiles back up to his feet. 

“Of course.” 

\- - - - - - - - - - - -

“I shouldn't have let him get downstairs. I should have prepared for another human to come.” Stiles sighed. “I made defenses against wendigos, kanimas, werewolves, banshees, everything but another human. I should have known better.” The boy held an ice pack to his bruised forehead while Peter washed his hands in the sink. 

Dragging the man from the florist shop to his place across the way hadn't exactly been easy, not with all the cars passing by, but after a few minutes of graciously sparse traffic they managed to do it and get him tied up somewhere he wouldn't be in reach of any particularly dangerous substances. Peter still voted they just kill and dump him in the river; leaving him tied up and awaiting the arrival of Stiles mentor seemed too good a fate. He only hoped they used him in some sort of human sacrifice. 

He wet a cloth underneath the stream of water and returned to Stiles. 

“He wasn't an ordinary human, Stiles. He came here to get tools for a genocide. He brought a shot gun with him, he knew when you'd be alone. He would have gotten in one way or the other. Be grateful someone else was around to protect you- it could have been a lot worse.” Peter sad down beside the human and pressed the cloth to his bleeding lip. The wound was mostly scabbed over, but cleaning away the last bits of blood made him feel useful. 

“I know that. I just,” he shrugged and dropped the ice pack. The swelling at least had gone down, but the boy still didn't look good. “It's my fault I let him get inside. He could have hurt you.”

“He did hurt me, but I healed. I do quite a lot of that.” 

“But what if you hadn't? What if there was wolfs bane – hell there _was_ wolfs bane! Mine! He could have killed you.” 

“Could have, but didn't. It's a very important distinction to make. Speaking of important distinctions-” Peter cupped his hand under Stiles chin and gently turned his face so they were facing each other. The boys chocolate brown eyes starred back at him. “What were you planning to do with those plants once they were grown? Several thousand you need to assassinate, Stiles?” He still didn't believe their was any shred of evil in Stiles heart. Mischievousness, cunning, guile, absolutely. But no evil. Everything else in the basement was of a lesser variety, meant to stun or confuse, not kill. The mistletoe could, arguably, but it was commonly sold around the holidays anyways, not exactly an assassins first pick. 

“Nothing,” Stiles said. Peter could feel his pulse just under his fingertips. It didn't blip. Not for a second. 

“Then what were you doing with them?” his brow furrowed. He released Stiles chin and pressed the cloth up to his temple, wiping away at a fictitious speck of blood just as an excuse to stay in contact. 

“No, really,” he laughed bitterly. “Nothing. It was part of my emissary training. I was just supposed to hold on to them, to protect them. At the end my mentor was going to come and show me how to properly destroy them and harvest the seeds. Then we'd destroy them.” Stiles bitter smile turned into a solemn frown. “They won't let me be an emissary now.” 

“What makes you say that?” Peter pulled the cloth away so he could look fully into the boys eyes. They swam with guilt. 

“Those plants were mine to protect. Before you can protect the life of a human, you must protect the life of a plant, then an animal, and then a human. I failed the first stage of my training. The thing I was entrusted with is now smashed to bits in my trash can. A psychopath almost took them. He would have taken them too, if you hadn't shown up to rescue me.” His tone was half bitter half adoring. For once Peter got to play the hero, and for once it actually felt good. He didn't resent Stiles for having to save him, he didn't think he was weak. He knew Stiles was a clever, brilliant person, if a little on the skinny and sickly side. 

“So then we say you rescued yourself. I just happened to show up after the fact and get you cleaned up.” 

Stiles shook his head and winced, pressing the ice pack back to his temple. “No, they'd know that isn't true. They're good at sensing liars. You know, I just . . . “ he drummed his fingers along the table. “I just can't believe I'm going to get kicked out of my training program because of a plant.” 

“They won't kick you out,” Peter reassured. “If they try they'll have me to contend with. I don't know what kind of training they've had, but they can't hide behind their books and candles forever. Two wolves should be more than enough to convince them otherwise about you.” He smirked.

“Two?” Stiles raised a brow. 

“Erica already accepts you as pack. It won't be long before the others do as well.” That brought a half smile back to Stiles face. “We don't let our packs dreams be shattered so lightly.” 

“You accept me as pack?” 

Peter nodded. “Wolves rarely let strangers into their dens.” Stiles little heart fluttered. Peter pressed in for another kiss. Stiles winced a little as his cut was agitated, but when Peter tried to pull away he held him back.

“And now that I have you in mine,” he breathed when they broke apart. “I don't intend on letting you leave.” 

Stiles face broke with the return of his warm smile. “Does that mean I get to have breakfast before I leave in the mornings?” 

“It means I don't want you to leave in the morning.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading and the warm responses I received!


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogueish

Stiles eyes were open wide. He nibbled on his lip, but in his hand the needle was steady. He pinched the dogs skin between two fingers and inserted the needle with a wince. A second passed, and once the liquid drained into the animal he pulled the needle out carefully with bated breath. 

“I did it!” he shouted, startlingly both Peter and the pup he held. 

“Congratulations,” Peter said, shoving the dog back into Stiles waiting arms. “Now get out.” He plucked the needle from his hands, capped it, and deposited it safely in the waste bin. 

Stiles pouted and gripped the animal tight in his arms. “Aren't you the least bit excited for me? I just completed my first shot all by myself!” 

“Yes, I'm very happy for you, but you just did it inside a store with huge windows and that _thing_ has three heads.” The Cerberus pup tilted one of the three to one side, while the other two snapped playfully at Stiles clothing. “Take it back to your place. Now,” he eyed the dripping, drooling monstrosity distastefully. Its nose dripped and it let out soft sneezes every couple of minutes. Sometimes all three heads sneezed at once in a violent fashion that sent it skidding backwards in a mess of limbs and flopping ears. It kind of reminded Peter of Stiles. 

Stiles rolled his eyes. “I can't take him back. He's got _allergies_ Peter. Flowers aren't good for his noses.” The apprentice druid picked up a wad of tissue paper and wiped it gently down the animals snouts. The high from getting accepted into the next stage of his training kept him blissfully unaffected by the less sanitary aspects of his new role. 

“Well you aren't keeping him here.” Peter motioned once again towards the large windows. 

He was happy for Stiles, the druids would have been stupid for not keeping him on as an apprentice. Especially when they came to collect the body of the rogue 'hunter' and found themselves surrounded by a pack of seven, very protective werewolves. Even six months down the line the look on Deatons face was still vivid in his memory, and he hoped it would always be. 

“It's only until he gets big enough he can be released into a sanctuary.” Stiles looked sympathetically down at the young, orphaned animal. His body was vaguely reminiscent of a chow chow, while the heads each held varying degrees of lab, Pomeranian, and german shepherd. Stiles favorite head, nicknamed 'P.J.' for Peter Junior, had large floppy ears that covered his eyes when he ran. Peter still refused to acknowledge the name. As far as he was concerned they were snot, drool, and sneeze.

“Stiles, I cannot have a Cerberus in my shop.”

“He can be like a mascot! Say he's just a rare mutation. People will buy it.” 

“They'll buy it and call every news crew in town.” Peter poked the human in the nose. Stiles wrinkled it and stepped away. 

“Well at least let me keep him upstairs. Just until his nose gets better?” Stiles eyes grew even wider than the pups. Four pairs of beautiful, brown eyes fluttered their dark lashes at him. The ice in his heart melted just enough to drip a spot of compassion. 

“And what exactly am I supposed to do when you're gone? It's not as if I can give him the injections myself. There are certain depths even I won't sink to, and I've already gotten enough of his _fluids_ on me for one day.” He grimaced and wondered if the creature also had three bowels, or just one ginormous one. It certainly seemed like it. 

“Then I'll just stay here with you! I sleep over every night anyways, and the only time I go back to my place is for work. At lunch I can come get them for their walks, and I can bring over my clothes and laptop, so I won't have to run back and forth.” A strange look developed in the boys eyes as he planned it all out in his head. 

“Are you moving in with me? Did you just _decide_ for yourself you were moving in with me?” Peter raised a brow. 

Stiles looked back at him. His grin faltered a little. “If . . . that's okay with you?” 

Peter sighed. “I suppose you might as well. I suppose that also means this thing is here to stay.” He reached a hand out and let Derek Junior - or maybe it was Cora Junior – sniff at his hand. 

“Wahoo!” Stiles said, squeezing the pup to his chest with a bright grin. “The dogs only gonna be here for six months to a year, promise.” Three mouths barked approvingly in excitement, under his breath Stiles added, “or like, two, depending on health, genetics, the like.”

Peter sighed and wrapped one of his arms around Stiles waist. “You know, I lived a nice, quiet life before. Then you showed up with construction trucks and brought druids, hunters, and . . . _puppies_ with you. Are things ever going to go back to being quiet and clean?” He pecked the boy lightly on the cheek, enjoying the way his face still lit up every time he was touched in that way.

The pup whined and latched onto his arm with its nearest head. Peter grimaced down at the thing. 

Stiles grinned. “Never, ever, ever.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks all for reading and leaving nice comments! They help me through the day n.n

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to tag everything appropriately. There are lots of descriptions of pain, and Stiles faints a lot. Peter is somewhat sadistic, but he doesn't like to hurt unwilling people.


End file.
